"Fideles... Honorus... Servitus."

By the light of a single thin candle -- a priceless luxury to a common Ceterion in the Field -- Caius Antoninus repeats the ritual which has been a part of his life for fifteen years: the care of his weapons and armor. As he polishes, cleans and mends, the words of the pillars pass his stern lips.

First, the heirloom which guards his body from the swords and bolts of his foes; his grandsire's bronze scaled Corium. The Father of his Father was a giant among the avian race. It was believed that upon his passing, the armor crafted for him would lie for generations before another of the Antonine blood were mighty enough to take up this relic. But a mere twenty years after his passing had come Caius, strong enough to accept such an honorable heirloom. Such is the weight of armor among this family... like so many other aspects of a Praetor's life, it serves as a tie to the past... a link to those things which have come before them, and for whose sake they fight, and strive and suffer.

"Fideles," he repeats... Loyalty. The first Pillar upon which his caste stands. The words, spoken first when he was but a child, sitting with his brothers at their father's feet, ring again in his ears... the words of their Pater as he taught them the burden of their blood.

Even now, years later, Caius remembered with clarity the sight of his Father, the Centurion... still wearing his armor and sandals, the old soldier had reverently intoned, "A guardsman shall be loyal unto his Empyre. He shall defend its nobility, its citizens, fellow guardsman, and the Emperor unto the death. Attempting to subvert or betray the sacred oaths and trusts placed in him is the highest of crimes."

Caius finds himself in awe for a moment that, despite all that happened since he had joined his ancestors in speaking his oath of service, despite all else, the Praetorian heart beat just as strong, and always as loyal as it did when his grandfather bore this Lorica Squamata. The heart is invincible...

With a nod to himself, the gold-winged Ceterion resolves that this lies at the root of an Empyrean soldier's courage. The heart of the Ages... the very spirit of the Gods flowed through the body of the Empyrean race, and the Empyre which so nobly symbolizes this divine spirit. Though any noble would say that theirs is the highest caste of our race, any who have walked among the Praetorians know why a Guardsman will simply bow, and allow a nobleman to speak without correction...

For while it is true that none sit so near the gods as do the nobles, and by blood, the right to rule is theirs, What loyal son of sinew and bone could fail to be proud of the trust placed in the Warrior's caste? At the words of the Gods, not only the lives of their divine race, but all those souls yet to be born were in the care of the Guard. All the finest qualities of culture... everything worth preserving... all that his family had fought for, over 200 generations, was now entrusted to him. The weight of duty was a crushing one, but one which his caste was strong enough to stand under, proud and forever faithful.

"Honorus," the deep-voiced Ceterion murmurs... Honor. The Empyre shall endure always... of such he is certain, but what makes this fact marvelous is not that it shall simply endure; no, even wickedness and vice simply endure... what makes the Empyre so awe-inspiring is that for all the ages it shall stand, its honor remains whle and flawless. Such might, too, be said of the Guard.

Leaning forward, to add weight to his next words, old Quintus Augustus Antoninus had spoken with heartfelt resolve to his young sons. "A guardsman shall maintain the highest standards of honor both on and off the battlefield. He is responsible for his conduct at all times, as any actions taken by him reflect upon the whole of the Guard. He will retain the standards of etiquette, show kindness, uphold the law, and be merciful in the execution of his duties."

Theirs is the highest honor given by the Gods, the honor of Protection. The honor to stand first before any harm, that we, the Praetorians... we who are strongest, shall suffer before any pain should reach the more noble of our race. Before the youngest daughter of the poorest merchant needs dream fearfully of harm, the Guard shall have stood before this harm. Setting aside the immaculate Corium, the grim Empyrean takes up his antique shield, stunningly embossed in bronze and brass. When polished, the metals glow like gold.

To himself, Caius muses, "We are the shield of our people. None suffer before us, and none suffer beyond us... this is the wish of a Praetor."

Warriors sacrifice a piece of themselves in this life, such is given. For a moment, the Ceterion reflects on the wondrous gallery of the Dea Acesian, and the awesome talents of the Empyrean artists. How, for the barest of moments he despaired that he could never craft such wonders, never in all his days... But thereafter a swell of pride had filled his heart.

Her words had been, "It is for your dedication to our people that makes those of us who cannot fight eternally grateful." He was a part of that wonder, for it was his sacrifice for the greater good of the Empyre that would preserve such culture as those marvels. Millennia of greatness were at the back of every Praetor, and millennia more were in his care, every moment of his life...

When given so precious a trust as this, can any man wonder why this gold-winged soldier counts himself as blessed to crouch in the mud of a burnt land, facing an enemy many times his own number... ready to give his immortal soul to keep his people strong?

"Servitus." The final pillar... Service. When speaking of this final virtue, Caius' father had leaned back and with a gravity that made him seem so old, had spoken, "A guardsman serves his Empyre and his Empyre alone. The Guard serves not one man, but the hopes and dreams of the entire people. A guardsman's dedication and love for his Empyre are such that none should have to call that into question. His service to the Guard shall be whole and complete, forsaking all others while in its care. None shall stand higher in his heart while he wears its colors."

His armor cared for, Caius moves next to his gladius... the short sword was a marked contrast to the armor and shield, both of which were embossed and decorated with stunning displays of Empyreal workmanship, despite the many times they had been repaired, and reworked. His sword, the token of his caste, was markedly plain. It was the tradition of his family that while the heirlooms of armor reflect the greatness of Empyreal culture, the tool of this Warrior culture, the sword remains plain and unadorned. As plain as a Servitor's loyalty. No swords are handed down to sons... each Praetor's sword, as his loyalty, can never be taken from him, even in death. Such is the tradition of his ancient Family.

The weapon of Caius Antoninus does not differ in this... the straight edges of his blade are elegant only in thier blunt simplicity. The pommel and hilt are of plain wood, rounded and polished, greatly nicked and scuffed by the rigors of his caste. Drawing out a heavy cloth, the blade needs no further sharpening, he sets to cleaning a blade already without the slightest blemish... it is ritual. Not until every inch of this honed and gleaming weapon is tended to does he set aside the cloth, and grip the gladius.

As he does every night, this golden-winged son of the sky sinks to his knees, blade held before him so as to grant a moment's reflection before the edge is turned, point to the starry night overhead. It is like this... kneeling before the Gods, without the ornate trappings of the past, that Caius feels nearest to serenity. As he has done every night for fifteen years, and as he shall do every night until his death, the proud soldier's lips shape the words he spoke upon taking up this divine burden of service. He repeats the oath of the Guard.

"I, Caius Germanicus Antoninus, pledge my life, my honor, and my service to the Praetorian Guard. I pledge to uphold the laws of the Empyre, and to defend her in all things. Let my ancestors witness this oath and all know that its violation shall be my undoing. And so with an open heart, I embrace my brothers and sisters in arms."

Standing upon the Pillars, and heart full with the weight of the Oath... there is no force in all the world to make a true Praetor falter. If death is to find him in this place, it shall find him proud, unbroken, and unafraid.

FIN  

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